


The Elevator

by MillyVeil



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Elevator Sex, Entirely conscentual, Established Relationship, M/M, Office Sex, PWP, Post-Mission, Rough Sex, SHIELD, Smut, Unsure Clint, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:31:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil
Summary: After an op, Clint gets out of Medical with a neat row of brand new stitches along his hairline and has to answer to a Phil Coulson who isnota happy camper.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at Livejournal Avengerkink: 
> 
> Please, someone give me Coulson in a suit fucking Clint in his black SHIELD uniform hard against a wall, with minimal undressing on both parts, pants just barely unmade. Rough and hard and nnnggghn....
> 
>  So, yeah, this is smut without any redeeming value :) 
> 
> This is a younger Clint. He's years removed from the streets, but still not quite as secure in his relationship with Phil Coulson as he is later in life. In this fic he's initially a little... I wouldn't call it reluctant, more unsure of what's going on, but it all works out, I promise. 
> 
> I know the writing is rough and I apologize in advance for all typos and ambiguous pronouns. I will clean it up in the next few days days. Enjoy!

**The Elevator**

“How many stitches, Agent?”

Clint fingers the surgical tape along his hairline. Coulson’s voice is tight, angry, and he knows better than to be cute when faced with that tone of voice. 

“Six, Sir.”

“With me,” Coulson orders curtly.

Shit. Clint watches him stride down the corridor for a moment. Coulson's truly pissed. He hurries and catches up just as they reach the elevator, and he knows they’re going to Coulson’s office. The usual place for a serious talk after Clint has done something he thinks is reckless.

It's an internal elevator, not one of those glass and chrome ones that Clint likes because the view is amazing. Coulson presses the button and the doors close. He folds his arms over his chest as the elevator starts moving with a soft hum.

The display flashes bright yellow numbers as it goes.

Ninth floor.

Tenth.

“You know, I didn’t—

Coulson doesn’t look at him, looks straight ahead at the doors. “Don’t. Speak.”

Clint scowls. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose. He just… miscalculated. That’s all. He folds his own arms and joins Coulson in glaring at the doors.

Thirteenth.

Fourteenth.

Fifteenth.

Clint’s shoulders start to feel tight with the tension that’s pressing down on him in the small space.

Nineteenth. 

He turns towards Coulson. “It wasn't—“

Coulson moves fast, slams his hand into the emergency stop and Clint stumbles a little when the elevator comes to an abrupt stop between floors. Coulson’s on him a moment later, spinning him around. Clint’s breath leaves him in a huff when his chest hits the wall. He’s already turning, instinct and muscle memory combining to unleash hurt and pain and violence, because he’s over-tired and cornered, trapped in a small space with someone who’s bleeding aggression into his skin. At the last moment, he manages to rein it in. Coulson, his brain shouts at him, this is Coulson.

Coulson is fisting the scruff of Clint’s jacket, gripping it tightly. It’s making the collar at the front press uncomfortably against Clint's windpipe, but he doesn’t move, every muscle in his body held still and tense. Then Coulson shakes him, _shakes him_ , like he’s a kid who needs to pay attention, and it's wrong. _Wrong_. Sure, Coulson yells at him sometimes, and he certainly deserves it on those few occasions, but never in the time they have worked together has his handler put his hands on Clint like this.

Coulson gives him a final shake, then releases him with a shove that makes Clint hit the wall again. Clint remains half-turned, pressing his shoulder against the wall.

“I am so tired of you running off on your own,“ Coulson grinds out. “You go out with a team for a reason. To have someone to watch your goddamn six.”

“There was no time, they were going—“

Coulson pulls him around and clamps his hand down hard over Clint’s mouth, backing him into the wall. “I really don’t want to hear your voice right now,” Coulson tells him.

The tension grows into something else. Something bigger. This isn’t what Coulson does. How Coulson behaves. Phil sometimes does, when he's worried-turned-angry, but not Coulson. Clint realizes he doesn’t know who’s in the elevator with him, his handler or Phil, it's like they're bleeding into each other and it makes him feel like he's walking on quicksand. It had definitely been Coulson who collected him from medical, but now? Clint’s stomach has gone tight. Too many people in his life are shape-shifters by trade, deceivers by habit, and he _needs_ Coulson and Phil to be constants. To be separate.

Clint turns his head to get out from under the hand.

“Don’t,” Coulson (Phil?) says, his voice low and hard as flint.

Clint goes still, but he wants to protest, to defend himself. It had been the right call. It _had._ He just hadn’t expected having the business end of a goddamn shovel swung at his head. He wants to say something like ‘better a shovel than a hollow-point bullet’, but it doesn't seem like the time for quips.

He's stared down, the eyes dark and dangerous, then finally the hand moves from Clint’s mouth.

Without warning, Clint is pulled forward and hard lips find his. There’s no finesse, no tenderness, nothing more than pressure and teeth. Clint’s wrists are caught and pushed against the wall on either side of his head. He attempts to sidle away, tries to get some distance between them, but the knee that wedges in between his legs and presses up makes him reconsider. He sucks in a breath and goes up a little on his toes when the pressure against his balls increases to a point that’s bordering on pain.

"Don’t move, Clint.”

Clint. 

_Clint._

He closes his eyes and lets out a slow, silent breath. Unless he's really hurt Coulson calls him Barton, or Agent, or a combination of the two. Phil is the one who calls him Clint. Phil. This is  _Phil_. The one who gets angry and upset and worries about Clint, who is allowed to touch and press, and thank you god, the axis of his world rights itself.

Clint feels Phil's hands on his shoulders and opens his eyes.

"You with me, Clint?" It's a sitrep-order kind of tone, but it’s still 'Clint', so there’s no doubt who he’s looking at.

Clint nods. 

Phil keeps looking, and Clint nods again, more forcefully.

"Good," Phil says. "Because I’m going to fuck you. Right here, against this wall."

The words make Clint’s breath catch and in seconds he feels the tension of the past horrible minute fall away, feels the failure of the mission start to slide off him, falling to the floor like dirty snow. Phil snakes a hand under Clint's arm and around his back, pulls him in roughly. With the other hand he works the hem of Clint's black shirt out from the back of his pants. Clint arches as Phil’s hand dips in under the waistband and squeezes his ass. Phil's fingers then slides deep down the crack of Clint’s ass. Clint closes his eyes and lets the back of his head thud against the wall.

"I’m going to fuck you," Phil repeats, low and intense, and his finger starts to rub at Clint's hole. Heat starts to unfurl in Clint's gut. "And I want you to keep that mouth of yours shut."

Okay. Can do.

Phil withdraws his hands and Clint stumbles a little as he’s spun around again and his chest is pushed up against the elevator wall. He doesn’t miss that Phil takes care not to push the side of his head into the hard surface. Clint and his newly acquired stitches appreciate that.

Phil presses in against Clint’s back, sandwiching him between the coolness of the wall and the heat that’s coming off him. Clint holds his breath when Phil palms him through his pants. His body is already starting to respond, Phil does that to him when that ever-present carrier wave of  quiet authority is dialed up to eleven and focuses on him.

Sudden wet warmth against the sensitive skin below Clint's ear makes his breath stutter. Phil's mouth leaves a cooling trail of wetness on the skin, and Clint’s hisses when Phil bites down on the tendon there. Not hard enough to do damage, but hard enough that it’s definitely a statement. Mine, it says. _Mine_.

Clint braces himself against the smooth wall and sucks in a hard, harsh breath when the teeth on his neck are replaced by suction. Okay. Phil wants to mark him tonight. He is fine with that. So very, very fine. He won’t be able to hide this hickey under the collar of his jacket, it’s too high up, but fuck it, let them speculate. Clint tilts his head to the side to give Phil better access, and he’s rewarded with a sound of satisfaction against his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil starts grinding his hips against Clint’s ass. He’s hard, too. Clint can imagine the way his straining erection is ruining the lines of his immaculate pants. Clint bites back a moan and fuck, the man has no idea what he does to him.  

Phil’s hands leave his hips and reach around, start pulling at Clint’s belt. Clint moves to help him, but a sharp ‘no’ from Phil makes him put his hands back on the wall. The belt and the zipper are taken care of in a few seconds. Clint let out a shivery breath as one of Phil’s hands works itself inside. Oh, fuck.

There’s nothing gentle about the way Phil strokes Clint, the pace is ruthless, the grip is bordering on too hard. His breath hitches when the sensitive head of his cock drags against the fabric. 

“Please,” Clint says. He sounds breathy. “ _Please_ , Phil."

He inhales sharply as Phil’s fingers slips deeper into the tight confine of his pants. Clint mewls under his breath as his balls are squeezed painfully. Shit. Okay. Message received, loud and clear, five by five. The no talking order is still in effect.

He must really have pissed Phil off.

Without warning Phil pulls away. Clint twitches hard as his pants are wrenched down and the black fabric scrapes cruelly over his cock. Phil doesn’t bother to pull them down more than to mid-thigh before grabbing Clint’s wrists and pulling them behind his back to his ass. Clint knows what he wants. He pulls himself open.

When two of Phil’s fingers appear before him and tap his lips, Clint opens his mouth and sucks them in. He coats them liberally with saliva and hears the hitch in Phil’s breath when he takes them as deep as they will go. Phil’s knuckles press against his lips and he increases the suction, before pulling back a little and letting his tongue lap at the soft skin between Phil’s fingers.

He lets them go and tries to force his breathing back to even and deep as he waits for Phil’s fingers to get to work. He fails magnificently.

Even though he’s waiting for it, he twitches as Phil starts rubbing a small circle against his hole, then presses in. The saliva is easing the way a little, but not enough to keep skin from catching on skin every now and again. Clint grunts at the sensation, his fingers twitching on his ass cheeks. His cock is fully hard now, already leaking and begging for attention. Phil reaches around and gives it a couple of long, hard pulls, his breath hot and moist against Clint’s ear. He says nothing.

Clint leans his cheek against the cool wall and feels his world shrink to the small space in this elevator, the fingers in him, the hand on his cock. He exhales as another finger joins the first one, but far too soon they’re pulled out. Clint doesn’t move. The air is cool on his asshole and he knows what he must look like, pants pulled down, ass on display.  

He hears the rustle of clothes and then a wet sound behind him. Phil is slicking himself up. A few seconds later Phil’s pressing back against Clint, rubbing slick, cool lube into Clint’s hole. When he’s done he grabs Clint’s chin and tilts his head back and to the side, so their eyes meet. Phil's fingers are wet with lube.

“Not a word,” he reminds Clint.

Clint licks his lips and barely has time to nod before Phil presses his cock against his hole. He pulls himself more open. The skin is pulled tight and he wishes he could do more, but his pants aren’t pulled down enough for him to spread his legs. Then Phil pushes in, aim unerring. Clint tenses for a moment, feels the muscle in his back twitch, but it’s more an automatic response than anything, because the stretch, the burn, the intense fullness is perfect. Phil bottoms out and Clint feels like he’s vibrating. He wants. He _wants_.

And he gets.

His breath is forced out of him when the first thrust pushes him into the wall. There’s no containing the groan that pushes out of him as Phil starts moving for real. It’s heaven. A rough, dirty, primal kind of heaven that makes Clint want to participate, but Phil has made it clear that he doesn’t want an active participant this time, so Clint just stands there and takes it. 

Phil’s sharp grunts accentuate each thrust, his breath washing harshly across the back of Clint’s neck, and small huffs are forced out of Clint every time he’s pressed into the wall. Phil puts his hands against the wall on each side of Clint’s head and god, Clint wants it to last forever, wants to feel Phil own him, fuck him, but all too soon Phil’s breath grows labored in a way that’s so familiar. He reaches around and cups Clint’s balls, not hurting this time, but Clint still makes a high keening noise, because my god, he’s so hard it hurts, and someone needs to put their hands on him nownownow before Phil has to explain why Clint experienced a spontaneous combustion event in elevator C.

Phil shushes him, the sound warm against Clint’s skin, and he shuts his mouth on the sounds he’s making. Phil’s fingers move from his balls, presses in against the skin just behind them and _god, oh god, oh god_. He grits his teeth against the need to fist his own cock.

Phil’s hand finally, finally wraps around it.  

“Don’t come before I tell you,” Phil pants as he strokes Clint.

“Shit, if you don’t stop I’m gonna—“

It's like someone pressed pause. Phil abruptly lets go of Clint’s cock and stops moving.

“Wha—?“ It takes a moment to figure out what happened. But then Clint's brain starts firing. He puts his hands on the wall and looks over his shoulder, trying to convey to Phil that yes, yes, fine, I’ll play along. I’ll shut the hell up, just go back to what you were doing. _Now_ , please.

“Good boy,” Phil murmurs.


	3. Chapter 3

"Good boy," Phil says. 

He starts to move again. A moment later he slides his hand in under Clint’s t-shirt, his nails finding Clint's nipples and scraping across them. It tears a hiss from Clint. The pace builds until Phil's pounding into him again. The hand that returns to Clint’s cock sets up a solid counter beat to each thrust and Clint’s brain can’t quite decide if it wants to push back onto Phil’s cock or press forward into his hand. Fuck. Tightness is already pooling in his stomach, reaching down towards his groin. He’s not going to last long if Phil keeps this up.

Phil’s movements go sharper and harder, and Clint clenches down on him. He repeats it, pushing back as he does, and Phil’s fingers on his hips dig sharply into his skin. There’s going to be marks there too, and Clint will run his fingers over them for days, savoring the faint pain.

Phil's teeth find Clint's neck again and he comes with a sharp exhalation and a full-body shiver, his hand tightening like an iron ring around Clint’s cock. A broken noise escapes Clint. He’s close, too, so fucking close, but he can’t come, Phil said not to.

Phil stays where he is, breathing harshly into the back of Clint’s jacket for what feels like forever. His grip around Clint's cock doesn't loosen a fraction.

Clint rubs his ass against Phil and makes a low pleading sound. He feels Phil’s quiet laugh vibrate through his clothes.

“You really are a good boy, aren’t you?”

Clint nods. The world gets Clint Barton, sniper extraordinaire and professional pain in the ass. Phil gets this. He’s the only one who gets this.

Phil makes a mmm sound and his hand starts up on Clint’s cock again. It’s so relentless, so close and tight and Clint can’t help rutting up into that warm, strong circle. His skin tingles, feels stretched over his bones like it’s gotten too small for his body. He’s teetering on the edge.

“Not yet.”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep his body from giving itself over to the pressure that builds and builds and builds with every move.

The only sound in the elevator is their breathing, Phil’s evening out, Clint’s growing more and more ragged with every second.

“Not yet,” Phil says again.

 _Please, Phil. Please, please, please, please, please._ It becomes a mantra in his head as Phil’s hand moves faster on him. Clint is panting now, drawing in air opened-mouthed and shameless, and when the pad of Phil’s thumb drags over Clint’s slit, the sound that comes out of his mouth is a low-budget porno flick kind of groan. He would be embarrassed if he could spare the brain cells to give a damn, but they’re all occupied with the white noise pleasure that’s threatening to burst out through his skin. _I can’t… Please. I can’t._

Phil puts his free hand on Clint’s forehead, forcing his head backwards until it’s resting against Phil’s shoulder. He looks down at Clint while he keeps moving his hand on his cock.

“You want to come?”

Clint nods desperately.

Phil smiles evilly, twisting his hand on the upstroke and Clint’s toes curl in his boots. “You sure?”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut. Bastard. He nods again.

“Okay, then.” Phil plants a light kiss on Clint’s ear. “You can come now.”

Clint doesn’t need any more encouragement, two more of Phil’s expert strokes and he’s there, he’s beyond there, and the world around him goes small and tight. He shudders through his orgasm and Phil keeps milking him, the movement of his hand going slower and gentler.

By the time he stops completely Clint is twitching. 

He leans against the wall, his body going loose and heavy. Phil stays where he is, front lightly pressed up against Clint's back, hands on his hips. He doesn't move for the ten seconds it takes Clint to get his breathing under control, then he gently pushes away. Clint turns on wobbly legs and slides down the wall to sit on the floor. He reconsiders when he feels the cold floor against his ass. He gets to his knees and shimmies his underwear and pants up, tucks himself away. He zips up but leaves the belt open. With a groan he sits back down.

He looks up at Phil who is wiping his hands on a wet wipe, cleaning himself off before getting himself back in order.  

"That was… Wow,” he says as Phil gets his own pants up and buckles his belt.

Phil straightens his tie with care. His brows are doing something Clint doesn’t like. “Not too much, then?” he asks without looking up.  

“Just right.”

Phil looks up from his tie, then crouches down and runs his finger light as air over the surgical tape that covers the six neat stitches at Clint’s hairline. Clint closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. After a moment Phil sits down next to him. Black next to black, expensive suit next to basic SHIELD uniform. On the floor in an elevator. He smiles. Sexed out. At SHIELD HQ.

SHIELD HQ.

He looks up sharply at the ceiling. "Shit. The cameras.”

Phil just gives Clint a sideways look like he just said something incredibly ridiculous.

"Oh. You've disabled them."

Phil gives a shrug that says 'maybe I did, maybe I didn’t'.

Clint grins. Of course Phil would make sure there would be no incriminating evidence to haunt them later. And speaking of incriminating evidence, Clint looks over at the wall and makes a face.

“I made a mess.”

Phil pulls more single packs of wipes from his pocket and hands them over.

"You came out of the womb a boy scout, didn't you?"

Phil doesn't return his smile. “Please don’t go off comms like that." He rubs his eyes tiredly. "Not when a couple of semi-automatics have just emptied their magazines in your direction.”

Clint looks down at the wet wipe pack and turns it over in his hands. ”Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.” He looks up. “But I’m fine.”

Phil doesn’t answer.  

Clint puts his hand on Phil’s knee. When he doesn’t get a reaction he puts his arm over Phil's shoulder and pulls him closer. He doesn't stop until Phil is just about sitting in his lap.

“I’m fine,” he says again.  

There’s a moment of silence, then Phil nods and the corners of his mouth lifts a little.  

“Yes. That you are.”

 

~ End ~


End file.
